


DSM-IV

by Sadbhyl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-21
Updated: 2010-10-21
Packaged: 2017-10-15 14:51:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sadbhyl/pseuds/Sadbhyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has some issues with Sherlock’s sociopathy</p>
            </blockquote>





	DSM-IV

**Author's Note:**

> As the mother of an autism spectrum kid, I see a lot of parallels between Sherlock and ASD. It got me thinking about the whole sociopath thing, and this is what came out.

  
John started keeping a catalogue of Sherlock’s affection.

The next time he called himself a sociopath, John pulled it out.

  “You aren’t, you know.”

Sherlock glared at him from his seat across the fire.  “Aren’t what?”

He was obviously spoiling for a fight, but John wasn’t in the mood to give it to him.  At least not in the manner he wanted.  “A sociopath.”

Sherlock sneered.  “Is that a medical opinion, Doctor?  I wasn’t aware you’d taken up psychiatry.”

“Oh, you definitely have antisocial tendencies.”  Refusing to rise to the taunt, John relaxed into his chair.  “Maybe that’s the high functioning you were talking about.  But a full blown sociopath?  No.”

“Do you have any data to back up this deduction, then?”

“Of course.  I’ve been learning from the best, after all.”

He was still obviously irritated, but Sherlock’s interest had been piqued.  He leaned back in his own seat, steepling his fingers.  “All right.  Let’s hear them.”

John felt like he was in a spotlight.  For a change he was grateful for it.  To smack down his arguments, Sherlock was going to actually have to listen to him.  Maybe he could get through to him.  He leaned forward, folding his hands over his knees.  “Well, for one thing, you solve crimes.”  Sherlock moved to answer but John waved him off.  “Yes, I know, it’s a chance for you to humiliate authority figures and prove your own superiority.  But frankly, you are superior.  Beyond proving it, you gain nothing from doing this.  There’s no money in it, and you don’t even get any recognition, since you won’t let the police mention your name.  If you were truly a sociopath, you would be trying to get as much out of your abilities as you could.  You’d frankly be much better off as a con artist than as a consulting detective.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched.  “Who says I’m not?”

“This isn’t a con, Sherlock.  This is important work.  Even you call it that.  Work.  Sociopaths don’t have a strong work ethic.  You do, when the work is interesting.  I’d call it type A behavior, except it’s not on all the time.”

“All right, so I have a work ethic.  What else?”

“You’re celibate.  Sociopaths are the exact opposite.  They crave stimulation and deny themselves nothing.  You don’t even date.”

“How do you know I’m not picking up partners when I’m out?”

John shook his head.  “You taught me how to read the signs, remember?”  He pointed at Sherlock’s neck and shoulders.  “You wear your collars open, and there are never any signs of marks.  Even in a quick encounter, there’s a risk of some marking.  Also, I do your laundry and take out your dry cleaning.  There are never any stains or unusual odors to indicate you’ve been having sex.  Therefore, celibate.”

“Maybe I’m just very careful.”

“Then you wouldn’t let me do your wash.”

“Interesting.  Anything else?”

Another hurdle surmounted.  If Sherlock stopped arguing, it was because he didn’t have any arguments left.  Maybe.  “The drugs.  Lestrade told me about the cocaine and heroin you were doing when he met you.  Appropriate in a sociopath, the need for stimulation.  But you’ve given both up.  Again, you’re denying yourself.  Hell, you’ve even given up smoking, although I’m not sure that really counts, considering the rate you go through nicotine patches.”

Sherlock leaned forward, elbows on knees.  “Maybe I’m just taking a break.”

“Maybe.  But Lestrade said your probation was up two years ago, and in the five months I’ve been living here, you’ve been clean.  Trust me, after that first ‘drugs bust’ I’ve been checking.”

One eyebrow went up, mocking.  “I think if I wanted to hide something from you, John, I could manage it.”

“Maybe.  But you aren’t, are you?”

He looked like he wanted to argue but couldn’t.  “Fine.”  He slouched back in the chair.  “Anything else?”

“You like people.”

Sherlock snorted.

“You do.  I’ve been watching you.”

“Like who?”

“Like Mrs. Hudson.  Yes, I know, you yell at her as much as any of us, despite her being a sweet old lady, but you also hug her, Sherlock.  You hug her all the time and even kiss her occasionally.  You like her.”

“I helped get her husband executed.”

“Yes, which I’m going to take as a point in my column.  You didn’t need to get involved.  Hudson would still have done twenty-five to life for manufacture and distribution.”  He could see Sherlock struggling again, so John said it for him.  “But that would have left her tied to him all those years, their finances tied up, her own life just as restricted as his.  Instead you proved that he had been ordering the drugs to be cut with deadly contaminants, which provided aggravating circumstances.  He got the death penalty, she got the house.  Because she was a nice lady who you liked.”

Sherlock glared at him but didn’t deny it.  “One person doesn’t make a pattern.”

“Mike Stamford.  You asked him to find you a flatmate.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Near enough.  You call him by his given name, you’re on good enough terms to borrow his phone.  You waste time on social niceties with him.  And you were willing to consider his opinion on someone you could stand to live with.  And then there’s Angelo.”

“Angelo?”

“Yes, Angelo.  You smile when you greet him, like he’s a friend.  A real smile, not that fake one you use when you’re being polite.  He amuses you, and you like that he thinks you’re important.  It’s not just about the free food.  He doesn’t think you’re strange.  You like that.  You like him.”

“John, this is getting—”

“And then there’s the police.”

“If you say Anderson, so help me, I’ll—”

John shook his head.  “No.  Anderson is a waste of space as an investigator and an utter failure as a human being.  Sergeant Donovan, on the other hand…”

“You can’t honestly think I like Sally Donovan?”

“I do.  You know why?  You introduced us.”

Sherlock sneered.  “Should I be looking for the engagement notice?”

“Not like that.”  John kept his temper.  “That first night, at Lauriston Gardens, you took the time to actually, properly introduce us.  Usually you can’t be bothered.  Hell, you never even introduced me to Lestrade.  But for some reason it was important to you for her to know who I was.  And you don’t insult her the way you do the others.  Which isn’t because she’s a woman.  You’re very equal-minded when it comes to your barbs.  So.”

“I don’t like Sally Donovan.”  There was less certainty in his protest now.

Sherlock was weakening.  Rather than debate one point, John threw out another.  “You like Lestrade.  I’ve heard the two of you teasing each other.  And you prefer to have him on the scene when you’re working a case.”

“That’s because he’s not useless as an investigator. I can work with him.”

“Because you like him.”

“John—”

“And you like me.”

John met Sherlock’s eyes without flinching.  This was dangerous.  He could list all the evidence, the smiles, the nods, the casual acceptance of his presence, the way Sherlock deferred to him in all things moral, all the little ways he acknowledged John’s presence without even realizing.  But if he had to point it out, if Sherlock hadn’t realized it for himself, John had to acknowledge that it would hurt.

“So if I’m not a sociopath, what am I?”

John relaxed, smiled slightly.  “I don’t know.  APD covers a lot of ground, but I still don’t like it, not for you.  Self-medicated autism spectrum might work.”  Sherlock sniffed.  “Don’t be so dismissive.  It would explain a lot of your behaviors.”

“Such as?”

“How obsessive you are on a case.  The way you can’t shut out extraneous sensory input when you’re processing.  How finicky you are about your clothing.  Your complete lack of respect for other people’s possessions and personal space.”

“Is that really what you think?”

“No.”  He waited for Sherlock to relax before hitting him with the second punch.  “I just think you’re a selfish bastard.  Tea?”

At last Sherlock grinned.  “Tea would be excellent.”

John went to the kitchen to put the kettle on.  A few moments later, Sherlock followed him, leaning casually against the doorframe.  “What brought this on?”

John picked out the two cleanest teacups and rinsed them out.  “I hate sloppy diagnoses.”

“You aren’t a psychiatrist.”

“Yes, well, neither was whoever gave you that diagnosis, apparently.”

Sherlock smiled at that, looking down at the floor as though embarrassed to be caught being amused.

John set the box of teabags down next to the cups and saucers.  “Sherlock, you are who you are.  You don’t need some stupid, wrong label defining you or limiting you.  Just…be Sherlock Holmes.  Stop feeling like you have to make excuses for it.”

“I’m not making excuses.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Why would I be making excuses?”

“I don’t know.  You’re the most brilliant man I’ve ever met.  If I were you, I certainly wouldn’t try to justify it.”

“So it’s all right for me to be a selfish bastard?”

“You are who you are, Sherlock.  Warts and all.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked.  "It sounds as though you're saying my antisocial behavior is psychosomatic."

"All the best people have them."    John grinned.  "Maybe you should start a blog.  I hear they’re good for that sort of thing."

“So’s a chase across London.”  He palmed two of the biscuits John had put out and went back into the lounge.

John shook his head and replaced them.  “You set yourself up for that,” he chided himself.  It didn’t matter.  Sherlock was Sherlock.  John wouldn’t have him any other way.


End file.
